Mr Sinister
by Expanse8801
Summary: Years since his wife was murdered and his infant daughter taken by a masked individual, Booker's life changed forever. When a recent rash of abductions opens a dark door to his past, Booker's path crosses with an exiled Jedi. Seeking the same goal, the pair set off on a journey which ultimately ends with them being stranded in an underwater city, harboring sinister secrets.
1. One

**Mr. SINISTER**

A _Bioshock_ & _Star Wars: The Clone Wars_ crossover

* * *

 **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Bioshock_ nor _Star Wars: The Clone Wars_

 **Rated T:** Coarse language throughout; brutal violence; breif sexual content

 _A:N- Although this is a mashup of the two genres, majority of the story will take place within the walls of Rapture. Hope you'll enjoy the read!_

* * *

 **CHAPTER I**

 _The Lighthouse: Part I_

* * *

Booker Dewitt gasps awake with a startling discharge of air from his lungs. His mind in a panic, confusion dominating his senses—eyes darting through the darkens around him. From what he can perceive is that his body is surrounded in a pool of water—bone chilling water eating away at his nerves numb beyond belief.

His heart rate decreasing, Booker struggles to keep his head above the waterline, feeling the sensation that something is progressively yanking him down by the feet. Water continues to spurt relentlessly from holes in the enclosed ceiling and walls around him, spewing onto his face and into his eyes. Kicking his numb legs to generate some tread, Booker manages to keep his nose and mouth out in the only bubble of air that he fears is shrinking in size by the seconds.

Everything around him is casted in a near darkens, only the faintness illumination from a deep, amber glow of a flickering light above his head paints a good enough picture. From what Booker can tell, he's in the cargo hold of a ship—well, _was_ a cargo hold, anyway. Right now his head is bobbing just inches under the ceiling of which he recalls being at least four meters high. That was before all this damn water came into play, which also indicates that the ship had crashed landed.

 _Obviously…_ Booker reflects, coughing a dry laugh into his limited air supply. He soon winces, noting a tremendous shot of pain emitting from the lower right side of his abdomen. Unable to feel the wound to his side with his numbed hands, Booker does his best to ignore the pain and figure a way out this doomed cargo hold before it becomes his tomb.

Seeing no clear way out from his current vantage point, Booker knows his only chance out of this is by going underwater. He takes a moment, gauging his breaths as the chilling water lapses over his face. Swallowing one last big gulp of air, Booker forces himself down beneath the waterline. The world erases itself momentarily, until being replaced by the dull sounds of water shifting around him.

Opening his eyes to the murky black wall of water before him, Booker rearranges himself until he is swimming straight down into the submerged cargo hold. He can see maybe a meter ahead of himself, along with a few large size objects suspended in place far beyond what his eye can make out. Few of the darken shapes are humanoid in profile… contorted in a final possess that captured their agonizing deaths of drowning. Booker doesn't plan on joining them. He continues on his stride, propelling himself through the water with each flutter of the arms and strong kick of the legs.

Passing a few more drifting corpses, Booker wrenches himself through a narrow opening emerging through to the other side and into open water. Treading in place, Booker swivels and turns around in the water trying to establish his orientation. As he is doing this, he notes a dark, murky cloud obscuring his vision partially. It comes to his realization that the murky cloud is in fact blood… _his_ blood, spewing out from the wound at his side. It looks bad, but he can't do anything for it now.

Looking up, Booker spots the shimmering horizon of the surface, blazing hot orange due to what he believes are fires. He pushes his body into motion, struggling to hold the trapped air in his lungs which is about to burst at any second.

Kicking as hard and as fast as he can, Booker begins to feel the air slipping through his nostrils, his head fogging with density and his vision blurring. The wound at his side bites and tears at him evermore, making the meters swim to the surface more of a bitch than ever.

 _Come on—come on—you're almost there you bastard!_

The voice in his head screams at his burning and aching insides. The water gap between him and the surface seems never ending, like the surface is retreating higher and higher towards the sky.

 _COME ON!_

Reaching a hand out over his head, Booker breaks the surface followed by his entire body. Instantly, he hurls down a breath of cold, fresh air down into his lungs. Air never tasted so good, even if it's contaminated with the stench of burning fuel around him.

With no time to celebrate his death defying escape, Booker assesses his surroundings, realizing that he's engulfed by the raging valley of fire, dancing across the water. Occasionally He feels the intense of the heat canceling out the chill of the night each time the wind shifts. And when the wind shifts, so does the flames, ever so slightly towards Booker's direction.

"You've gotta… be shitting me," he curses aloud. Not only was he going to drown just a second ago, but now he'll burn to death if he doesn't move his ass.

Making out a clearing in the ring of fire, Booker makes a mad dash towards his only escape route. The raging flames hot on his heels… literally in this case, Booker doesn't stop in stride. Even though he's swimming right into the middle of freakin nowhere, in the dark and freezing his ass off, he has no other option.

Once he feels confident enough that he's put some manageable distance between himself and the chasing fires does he come to a halt. Whipping around in the water, Booker stares back at the orange cloud hovering over an inky black ocean of water. The night, equally dark—infinitely dark as the big-empty, without the stars. Only now can Booker soak in the depth of the darkness that hugs tightly around him.

Silence floods his eardrums, besides the flack of fiery winds blasting over the destroyed cargo ship. There's no doubt everyone that was onboard is dead, Booker believes. And, maybe even _her_ as well… the Jedi who accompanied him.

For a moment, a glint of guilt invades Booker's gut. Though still, he didn't drag the Jedi into this shit-show—she got herself involved and she went in knowing the consequences of the mission. It's one of the main reasons he hates collaborating with others… he hates having people die on his charge. But what can he do about the Jedi? Now's not the time nor place to be feeling sorry for himself or grieving over the Jedi. He has to get back on mission—that's his main priority…

"Ah!" Booker grunts. The wound at his abdomen is getting worst by the second radiating and stinging with pain. He can't see it now, but he can feel the blood leaving his body like a slow leak in an air-hose. He has to find dry ground, if there is such a thing as solid ground around here.

From above, the dense cloud cover that shrouded the starlit sky from reaching Booker's eyes reveal themselves. A large, silver moon hangs low in the sky, bleaching the jet black surface of the water with an eerie glow.

Yet, another glow overtakes the night. This one brighter… much brighter than the moon and closer too. Slowly treading around in the water, grimacing from the pain at his side… Booker's mouth literally drops open.

There, right before his eyes is a magnificent structure—a towering lighthouse standing menacingly over the calm, dark ocean. The same tower he didn't totally believe existed… until now.

The tower's easily tens of meters high, so high in fact that Booker can't even see its top, due to the low hanging clouds drifting overhead like phantoms in the night. He isn't too far from the base of the structure, which looks to be situated on an outcropping of jagged rocks.

Booker swims the short distances to the rocks, relived to be back on solid ground again. His muscles flaring with fatigue of treading in water, Booker heaves a gasps as he wrenches himself up onto one of the lower rocks just barely sticking out of the water. He gets his entire body on top the bolder, and then painfully rolls over on his side so that he's looking up at the sky.

For a long while, Booker remains motionless, pressing a hand to the bleeding wound at his side. He grits his teeth the moment his palm touches the painful spot. Still, he takes a moment to rebuild his stamina, seeing his own breath fog up the air above his face each time he exhales. The lighthouse inverted in his vision, Booker watches the silver beam swivel through the surrounding night, slicing through the clouds and beyond.

In his silence, Booker hears something tapping against the rocks. Lifting his head up off the rough face of the boulder, Booker leans slightly, making out a small metallic object bobbing against the stone. The object glints in the moonlight, sparkling dull, iridescent beams.

Rearranging himself on the stone, Booker extends an arm for the object, wrapping his fingers around the rough, cylindrical body. Retracting his arm and rolling back on his back with a grunt, Booker examines the tool in his hand. It's a lightsaber… the Jedi's lightsaber.

Just then, a thought jumps into Booker's mind. Removing his blood soaked hand off his wound, Booker knows he'll slowly bleed to death… unless he cauterize the wound shut. It's gonna be painful as hell, and infection might run rapid later, but none of that would matter if he bleeds out on this rock.

Booker shakes his head, gasping a weak laugh, "screw it."

Pulling back the bottom layer of his jacket, Booker exposes the flesh of his lower belly and the wound to the chill of the night. A river of blood oozes up over his skin each time his heart beats. He wages he has less than a few minutes to do this before blacking out and never waking up.

Fighting the voice in the back of his head to stop, Booker's heart begins to race the moment he dials the switch on the lightsaber, springing the gleaming green beam of energy to life with its unmistakable snap-hiss.

He holds the hilt of the saber with both hands, the energy blade hovering lengthways over his body by inches.

"Okay," Booker breaths aloud to calm the tremble of his hands gripping the saber. "You can do this DeWitt… you can do this."

Pulling the collar of his jacket between his teeth, Booker sinks his teeth into the leather before slowly bring the tip of the sun-hot saber near the bleeding gash at his naked skin. The hum of the lightsaber seems amplified in his ears—the heat against his skin instantly eliminates the chill of the night. Breathing rapidly through his nostrils, his grip like iron on the hilt of the saber, Booker dips the very edge of the saber beam to his skin, and instantly grunts in pain.

It's like the fires of Mustafar have touched his bare skin, but still, he fights the urge of lunging the saber back, hearing his own skin cook like dinner in a microwave. Tears seep out the corners out Booker's tightly shielded eyes and his teeth clench into the leather of his collar as he muffles out cries of agony. The several seconds of burning his open wound shut feels like an eternity and he fears that he'll pass out from the intense pain and drop the saber on top himself, instantly killing himself. But no such thing happens, fortunately.

Once the three seconds are up, Booker quickly takes the saber beam off his skin and deactivates it altogether.

"AH…! Son of… bitch!" Booker quells out. He falls into a coughing fit, cringing over on his side starring out at the calm, dark sea. Again, he goes limp, unable to flinch a muscle. He's so tired… all he wants to do is rest. But his mind refuses to rest… not when he's made it this far.

Slowly unzipping the breast pocket in the inside flap of his jacket, Booker withdraws an exotic looking key. He holds it before his face, watching its unusual hues of bronze glint off the moonlight. On its blunt edge harbors a scaled engraving of the lighthouse he lies under now. A rather insignificant, flamboyant object to anyone else. However, Booker knows that this object—this _key_ is just the starting point in patching the void in his heart. And to claim his revenge once and for all.

 _To be continued…_


	2. Two

**CHAPTER II**

 _Nightcrawler_

 _Four days earlier…_

* * *

Cuffing a hand against the bitter wind, Booker DeWitt dips his head, bringing the tip end of his cigarette to the small flame sprung from his lighter. Getting the tip red hot, he inhales a douse of tobacco, savoring the heated taste in his mouth before relaxingly expelling the smoke through his nostrils. Flicking the lighter off, he stashed it away in his coat pocket and took his gaze to the hazy skyline of Nar Shaddaa.

The city of neon and technicolor was tainted in its permanent, sickly veil of yellow haze and was busy as usual. Overhead, high in the sky above the towering stratoscrapers, hundreds, possibly thousands of aero vehicles zipping in any given direction. A spider web of confusion, oddly enough possessing some sense of order to it all. A similar feeling transpires down here on the surface of this polluted, overpopulated world. People had a sense of order…of right and wrong, to a degree, but then there were _those_ _people_ … the bad apples that stick out amongst the ambiguity. The type of people who embody everything civilized society repulses. Those people made Booker the man he is today… a man who wasn't afraid to cross that threshold into the abyss. It was his job, of course, but it seemed like each and every day, that bottomless pit of immorality in which sentient life digs, seems to get deeper and deeper.

Remaining unobtrusive as possible, Booker maintained a hard eye on his target. He stood at the perimeter of a bustling bazaar. Every known alien species of the galaxy shuffled in large crowds through the makeshift merchant stands, speaking in a jumbled mess of languages and dialects, shuffling down throughways. The homeless—which made up nearly half of Nar-Shaddaa's population—sat on the dusty roads, backs against the walls of buildings clear out of the way of passer-byers. Booker does his best to intermix within the crowds to the point that he just becomes another invisible face.

Occasionally, a strong gust of near freezing winds would strafe through the streets, kicking up dust, trash… the smell of shit from the backup sanitation systems. Booker simply ducked his head low, holding a firm hand on top his hard-felt hat on his head, preventing it from blowing off and winding up in some jackass hustler's possession to steal.

Armed robberies, muggings and gang violence were as frequent as the everyday night-cycle on Nar Shaddaa. It happened anytime of the day, anywhere, to anyone. Booker made sure all his belongings were tucked away inside his jacket and tossed out a hardened vibe to any would-be-robber to screw off. He didn't have to worry too much about it… because he was packing one hell of a personal arsenal.

He had a Power 5, Elite Type stashed in a holster just under his left armpit for easy access. Along with the P5, he carried an additional set of pistols: two DL-6H's. Strictly illegal to possess in most systems, due to their easy concealment and devastating firepower, Booker didn't have an issue at all in obtaining them on Nar Shaddaa.

Picking the brim of his hat up, Booker's eyes landed on the back of his trial: a male weequay wearing a jacket marked with an easily identifiable insignia on the back. Booker has been trailing this guy all day through the markets, down crowded streets, and through it all, he was beginning to wonder if he'd been made. Because the weequay hasn't been doing shit besides walking randomly around this dense city, only having one holo-chat to someone Booker couldn't identity. He guessed that it was a friend due to the weequay's occasional laughter and body language. But after that, the guy has been wandering around this bazaar for nearly three standard hours.

At first, Booker though he was wasting his time, that his Intel was off. But then that other part of his mind began to start working, the patient side. It became clear to Booker that the weequay was killing time, in preparation for an upcoming job heading his way. He was what people in the Outer Rim call a 'squalor,' which out here held the meaning of hunter or spotter. In plain Basic, he's the guy slavers paid to seek out potential kidnap victims to feed their barbaric organization that fuels Nal Hutta's economy along with other corrupted worlds. Slavery is strongly forbidden… anywhere near or inside the Core Systems or within the gridlocked veil of Imperial Space, that is. Out here on Nar Shaddaa and the Outer Rim, it ran amuck, and anyone of any age, race or gender could be targeted.

The weequay, calling himself Shrahbi was good at what he did. He was charismatic, played the everyday-man down to the hilt, even helped an elderly ithorian woman cross the street with a fringed smile plastered across that rouged face of his. But Booker knew what kind of man he was… more importantly who he was in cahoots with.

Remember that bottomless pit? That deep, dark pit of immorality sentient life forever digs… this guy's hugging that abyss. Or the people he's working with are, at least. However far south this weequay's moral compass points, Booker doesn't really give a crap. He just knows that he's on to something—something that he hopes will be that last fitting piece to a fifteen year puzzle he's so desperately been trying to solve.

Booker's trail came to a sudden abrupt halt, standing in the middle of the throughway. Booker forced himself to stop, then instinctively straddles out the middle of the street until he's standing on the crumbling sidewalk. Shrahbi's back was still to him and he was sure the alien isn't even a hair aware of his presence. Though oddly enough, the weequay does take a nervous look around, out of the blue really. Booker studies the alien carefully, searching for any indication in his body language that something ticked him off.

After a tense moment, Shrahbi brought his arm up parallel to his face and his lips begin moving. He was having another holo-chat, only this time he didn't look so at ease. Squinting his eyes, and shifting the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, Booker's attention became fully devoted on this one singular man. All the noise, the hundreds of moving bodies around him become shallow to his senses. It's like a spotlight was shined on Shrahbi while the rest of Nar Shaddaa hid behind a black curtain.

The weequay's body language became antsy—shoulders bobbing sporadically—radical hand gestures and anxious facial expressions paints a picture in Booker's mind that _charismatic_ Shrahbi's world was crashing down on him.

Yet Booker knew what was really going on. The weequay had a debt on his head… a rival gang he and his group of buddies had pissed off somewhere across the line. Their numbers were dropping fast and Shrahbi was among the last still breathing on Nar Shaddaa, which was why Booker had kept tabs on him. However, the thoughts vanish from Booker's mind at the same time Shrahbi does. The weequay straddled quickly out of sight, disappearing into the masses of shifting crowds of the street.

"Shit!" Booker uttered, dropping his cigarette from his mouth. It's the last thing on his mind as he breaks into a brisk jog, brushing people aside as he moved to Shrahbi's last know location. When he got there, a pit develops in Booker's stomach.

His eyes frantically searched for the alien, spinning in circles—reading every face close and far. None registered, and this pit grows into icy fear clinging to Booker's heart.

"No—no—no... I can't lose em'—I can't lose em'."

Panic quickly took hold of Booker. All that hard work of tracking, of planning… all of it down the drain. Just as he was about to curse the heavens for his misfortunate, his eyes spotted that familiar jacket. He got the weequay back in his sight, walking fast down a narrow alley, leading away from the markets.

Booker took off after his trial, roughly shoving a male twi'lek out his way, earning a spiteful remark directed at him from the alien. Booker didn't even hear what was said, the only thing on his mind was catching up to Shrahbi before he loses the guy again.

Cutting down a busy intersection, Booker gets eyes on his target a few dozen meters ahead of him. Shrahbi looked to be moving towards the favela, a notorious district known for its bloody gang wars that leave scores of thugs but mostly innocent civilians dead. Booker doesn't even think twice of that fact, he just keeps on Shrahbi's ass hoping the alien would slow down.

The weequay leaps a crumbling barrier that separates the favela from the market district. Booker, hot on his heels leaps over the barrier only to be caught off guard by the two meter drop off right into a garbage piled trench.

Hearing the nosy ruckus, Shrahbi, who was halfway down the alleyway, stopped and pivots around. His dark, beady eyes barely seeable in the darkness of the alley, though they connect with Booker's. It was in that split second moment that a shocked look spread across his face and he took off running at full speed.

"Damnit DeWitt!" Booker cursed himself, struggling to crawl up out of the garbage pile. Back on his feet, Booker bursts into a sprint after his target. The rough contours of the alley blast pass Booker's vision, the putrid stench of air rushing over his face as he struggled to keep on Shrahbi. A side stitch began to tighten in Boooker's side and the dank air invaded his lungs. Weequay are lighter than humans and have great stamina due to evolving on a world with a thin atmosphere. If Booker's gonna catch this guy, he'll have to get him at a chokepoint. The weequay may have an advantage of knowing the terrain, but Booker was semi-confident that he'll screw up somewhere along the line. For one, the favela was full of dead ends—shooting galleries the numerous street gangs use to execute rivals in. It'd be fitting if he caught his target there.

Rushing up dirt inclines, pivoting around sharp corners and sliding under wooden posts, Booker lost his hat at one point, not thinking twice of the item now insignificant in the face of his greater goal. Sweat pouring down his face, despite the coldness of the air, Booker struggles to keep up with Shrahbi. The slippery bastard hasn't screwed up yet, which means it has to be up to Booker to make sure that he did.

Panting his breath, Booker looked up at a ladder leading up to a scaffold system that stood over the shanty houses in the vicinity. If he's lucky enough, he could get a good vantage point as to where Shrahbi had ran off to. Liking the idea, Booker jumps up the ladder, climbing up the prongs until he makes it to the top. The scaffold is rigidly, blowing in the wind.

He's able to make out well over a few blocks, but his visibility was limited by that overhanging hazy that dominates every inch of Nar Shaddaa. There, up ahead, Booker spotted the slippery bastard, tripping over a trashcan near a slumped shanty house up ahead. Only he has company, a trio of men, rather teenagers to be more precise, tread right on Shrahbi's heels. The teens gang up on the weequay, roughly snatching him up off the ground, lifting him by the jacket collar and pinning him on a nearby wall.

With the odds back in his direction, Booker slid down the ladder back to the ground, hustling after his target before he ends up with a shank in his side.

It didn't take long for Booker to reach the location where the teens where mugging Shrahbi. He came to the mouth of the alleyway, knelling low and drawing his Power 5. He didn't see any reason in using lethal force, so he sets the pistol to stun. Taking a breath, Booker stepped from around the wall and briskly approached the gang of kids, who were hitting and kicking the shit out of Shrahbi in the mud. Even from his ever closing distance, Booker was able to hear the thudding blows striking the weequay along with Shrahbi grunts of pain. He would've hung back, let the kids get a few more hits in the guy, but then he saw that one of the kids, a pale skinned zabrak, had a blaster stuffed in the back of his trousers.

When he got close enough to the trio, Booker hollered out, "hey!"

His shout immediately drew the trios' attention and Booker fired first, hitting the zabrak with a stun ring from his Power 5. The horned kid dropped like a rock, his counterparts stood stun for a split second before they began to reach into their pants to draw their weapons.

Before either cracked off a bolt, Booker quickly dropped to one knee and tapped the trigger twice. Both fell limp to the dirt.

Swallowing a breath, Booker came back standing and approached Shrabhi curled up in a ball of agony, covered in a layer of mud and his own blood. Booker held his aim at the weequay as he made sure the three teens were really out, nudging each of their unconscious bodies with his foot.

Satisfied, Booker brought his attention back on the incapacitated weequay and said sarcastically, "you can thank me later."

* * *

Booker had Shrahbi cuffed to a chair and his legs bounded to the chair-legs with cables. The weequay sneered a bloody grimace from his battered face as Booker turned to face him.

"You know who I am?" Booker questioned, his voice carried shallowly in the abandoned warehouse. There wasn't a soul near or far and most of the warehouse had been demolished, leaving an entire corner of the main structure's roof swiped from existence, allowing the smoggy night sky to show.

Shrahbi remained stubbornly silent, gleaming a look of contempt, though Booker could tell the weequay was nervous due to his rapid breathing.

"Well, I know who you are," Booker said, removing his jacket and revealing his hidden arsenal of weapons strapped about his torso. "I know of the things you've done." He folds his jacket in his arms, then sets it on a nearby table along with Shrahbi's belongings including a vibroblade rested.

"So how about we make this entre thing easier for the both of us and you tell me what I want." He slid his fingers along the suspenders that made up the holsters and stood in front of Shrahbi. "The people you work for…who are they?"

Again, the weequay says nothing, almost like holding his breath. Booker had a sense that the weequay knew why he was in the position he was in. It's too bad the sly bastard had wiped his holo-pad clean, this entire interrogation would've been over with before it even began. But Booker anticipated the weequuay wouldn't be dumb enough to leave a digital trail linking back to the major perpetrators Booker was after. So it was the hard way—like always.

In Shrahbi's defiant silence, Booker sighed, rubbing a thumb at his lower lip. He did his best to hide his annoyance and growing anger from getting the better of him. Booker had no problem using torture as a means to get what he wants, especially on a piece of shit like Shrahbi. But he was semi convinced that the weequay had enough sense in that messed up head of his to just use his damn words.

"Com'on, just give me a name—a race even…" Booker pressed on.

Nothing from the alien, but a hard glare. Forcing his hand, Booker knew simple words weren't going to cook this wamp rat.

Expelling a tired breath, Booker reached into his pants pocket, drawing out his personal holo-pad. He configured the palm size device's screen until the image of a family filled the screen. He then toggled a button which sprung the image of the family in the display of a free floating hologram.

"How's about this?" Booker challenged, setting his holo-pad down on the floor. He allowed Shrahbi to absorb the image of the smiling Human mother, father… infant daughter set between them. "This jog your memory?!"

The hardened expression on Shrahbi's face turned into one of anxiousness. All of a sudden he remembered how to speak again.

"Neva seen dem in ma lyfe," the weequay uttered in horrible Basic. "Why you showin' me dis, guy?"

"I'm asking you—and I ain't your _guy,_ pal," Booker said in a bolstering tone. Once a slight pause came between his words, Booker continued, "look at the picture again. That happy family you see was literally torn apart mere months ago by the people you're working for. Mom and dad had their throats slit and their six month old daughter taken from them!"

He lets the words sink in, watching Shrahbi for any reaction. The weequay doesn't even stifle a muscle in that beat-up face of his. Finally, Shrahbi shrugged weakly and uttered blankly, "and?"

Gritting his teeth, Booker marched up on Shrahbi—distorting the image of the young couple as he walked through the hologram. With a clenched fist, Booker stopped himself from breaking the bastard's jaw… knowing it'll make it hard for Shrahbi to talk. Instead, Booker took a few steps back, easing his fingers and the anger inside him.

"Don't make this harder for yourself," Booker said in a warning tone. "You will give me a name right now or I swear to whatever God you pray to—I'll break every damn bone in your body."

At first Shrahbi looked genially surprised, before gasping a dry, nervous laugh. "You ain't gonna do shit, human," he boldly proclaimed. "If you knew the guys I'm connected with…" the alien shakes his head, then looked up to Booker wearing a wry grin. "The things they'll do ta you—boy… make you wish you hadn't crossed me."

Booker actually laughed next, knowing the weequay was going to act like he had all the weight here. When in fact, Booker knew his words where just empty bluffs.

"Funny," Booker laughed, "now I would've taken your word seriously if any of your _connections_ were still breathing." Shrahbi's grin immediately dropped. "Yeah, I know what happened to your friends. How they were skinned alive and left to die." Booker shook his head, coughing a laugh. "Man, I'll run like hell too if I knew that was gonna happen to me next."

"Screw you, human," Shrahbi mutters. "Screw you and your family!"

Booker went numb momentarily when the weequay uttered that. He didn't allow Shrahbi's words to penetrate too deeply, he was the one in control here, not him. Instead, he changed the subject altogether, bringing focus back to this interrogation and keeping his anger in check which ate away at him ever so slightly.

"So these people you're with… they paid you to stoke out families like these right? Families that had children no older than a year old."

"I ain't tellin' you shit!" Shrahbi shouted. "Who do you think you are, huh? Interrogating me—and for what?! I've already told you I don't know who the hell these people are in this picture! So, guy, how's 'bout you— _AHHHHH!_ "

The sound of the Power 5 discharging is drowned out by Shrahbi's screams. Booker had shot the weequay in the kneecap, blasting a chunk of flesh clean off.

"Told'cha, I'm not your guy," Booker said, even though he's sure Shrahbi didn't hear him. Blaster in hand, Booker approached his captive, shoving the hot barrel of the weapon against the alien's cheek.

"So let's try this again," Booker said through grit teeth. "You give up a name, or I'll blow your head back."

Against all the pain he must be feeling, Shrahbi wheezing coughed. "Go ahead, I'ma dead man either way." The weequay lifted his head, despite the Power 5 hard on his cheek and looked Booker right in the eye with those dark, orbed eyes. "Just do me a favor… and pull that trigger."

Booker felt his eye quiver and his pulse heat up. He was about done with Shrahbi. Even if he tortured him, he knew it won't get him anywhere. Just by looking in the alien's eye he knew he was dealing with a man who had cornered himself with death.

"I spent the last fifteen years of my life chasing these people," Booker said, mostly to himself than to Shrahbi. "But I could last a little bit longer, I'm patient like that." Under his breath he muttered, "I'm sorry, Ann." Just as his finger tightened around the trigger, a light, feminine voice from behind grabbed Booker by surprise.

"You're wasting your time with him."

Booker swerved around, his eyes caught the silhouette of a humanoid figure approaching his way. The backdrop of Nar Shaddaa's hazy night glow shrouded any features Booker could make out of this person, who seemingly came out of nowhere.

"Who are you?" Booker question, readying his pistol in front of him.

"Someone like you," came the woman's narrow reply.

She continued towards him, Booker raised his weapon halfway. "Alright—that's close enough…" he dropped his sentence short when the woman came fresh into his view.

She looked younger than she sounded, Booker first thought. Her skin was a burnt orange, absorbing the shadows casted by the last few standing walls of the destroyed warehouse. Her face was marked up with elaborate tattoos, however the most noticeable feature of her form was the pair of head-tails that fell medium length pass her shoulders. She wasn't human for one—twi'lek perhaps… or something else, it really didn't matter. But the look in her eye told Booker that she wasn't shocked in the least of the weapon in his hand, nor the violence he had unleashed on Shrahbi who was still panting breaths of pain.

"You've been following me?" He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in the way you think," the young woman said. "But I know you're after the same thing I am."

She sounded sure of herself, Booker thought. The way she held herself registered that she wasn't just saying things. Still, she looked way too innocent to be in any position that Booker's in.

"Is that so?" Booker said with a cynical grin. "Then if you know any better, you'll run-on back home to your boyfriend before you end up getting yourself hurt."

He turned his back to her, missing the smirk biting away at the corner of her mouth.

"I know about the kidnappings," she said.

Booker's blood ran cold and he twisted back around facing her.

"Throughout the Outer Rim…" she went on. "All infants… no older than a year old…"

"How do you know this?" Booker asked, quickly stepping up to her, his tone sounding desperate but he didn't care. He was desperate for answers. "Who are you?"

Before the young woman could further elaborate, Booker saw her eyes shift behind him, looking in Shrahbi's direction.

Booker turned on his heels starring back at the weequay who managed to free a hand from his cuffs—he's possibly been working at it ever since Booker turned his back. Yet what really shocked Booker was the small blaster that somehow found its way in the alien's grip.

"Drop it!" Booker demanded, aiming his weapon for the weequay. "Don't be stupid, Shrahbi—drop the gun right—"

Shrahbi's blaster went off… only in a flicker of a micro-second, the weequay's aiming arm suddenly flung outward and the red blaster bolt meant for Booker arks out wildly, impacting something in the shadows.

Fueling off pure adrenaline in response to the shot, Booker dropped to the floor and fired a fatal bolt at Shrahbi. The shot from his Power 5 blew an orange hot hole through the weequay's chest. He uttered an abrupt yelp, his body twitched for a moment before collapsing limp in the chair.

An immediate flood of silences engulfed the demolished building. Momentarily stunned, Booker blinked several times before standing back to his feet and stared at Shrahbi's limp body. The alien's eyes were wide open, so was his mouth, a river of yellowish blood poured out the glowing hot hole in his chest.

"Was that really necessary?" The young woman standing behind him asked incredulously.

Booker twisted his torso around, responding to her shocked expression with a nonchalant shrug. "Aye, he shot first," he said, brushing a layer of dust off his shirt sleeve.

"Is this how you solve all your problems?" She questioned. "With blaster bolts?"

"If it keeps me alive…" Booker began to say, turning to face her disgusted expression. "And if what you said was true about going after the perps behind these abductions… then you better catch on quick, doll."

Her bitter expression became even sourer when Booker chimed that last word. Just when Booker thought she'd take the bait and lash out over it, the tension in her body eased as she inhaled a quick breath.

"You don't even know the first thing about these people, do you?" She said, more like a challenge.

"Apparently you do," Booker said back. "And you're going to tell me what you know." He crept towards her, towering over her small physique, blaster still in hand. "Right now."

He studied her expression carefully, expecting to see a bit of fear behind those eyes of hers. He saw none. In fact she crept a thin, genial smile as she folded her arms.

"Not here, not yet," she said with the shake of her head. "It isn't the right time."

"There's never a _right time_ for anything _,_ " Booker said, his tone colder than he intended. "You either get to talking now or—"

"Or what? You'll shoot me?" She countered, dropping a contemptuous stare.

Booker said nothing in return. He wasn't going to shoot anyone, let alone some spunky kid thinking she can handle the things he's seen and been through. Instead, he sighed stepping back and holstered his Power 5.

"Alright," he sighed flaring his arms out. "So if now isn't a good place then where is?"

"Tomorrow afternoon—Dracanna Plaza," she said. "You want to stop these abductions, you'll meet me there."

Now normally, Booker wouldn't agree to follow through with such a rendezvous. For one, he has no idea in hell who this kid's supposed to be nor how she seems to be on top of everything. For all he knows this could be a trap—set by the very people he's after. But if that's true, then they'll be leading him towards them and he still gets one step closer into finding the people responsible for all the pain's he's suffered for fifteen years. If he survives, that is.

Keeping his face neutral as that thought came through his mind, Booker simply nodded his head, then said, "sounds good—how will I know you're there when I arrive?"

She had a look as if she was suppressing a laugh then said, "just make sure you aren't late." And with that, she turned and began to exit out the way she so quietly came in.

Booker watched her out before uttering after her, "I'm DeWitt by the way—Booker DeWitt!"

Once his echo had faded, and the woman was more than halfway out the destroyed complex, she called back, "Ahsoka."


	3. Three

**CHAPTER III**

 _A virtue_

* * *

It was midafternoon and Nar Shaddaa's dark sky hardly changed if at all. Any new traveler to the world would have a hard time differentiating between the day and night cycles, it hardly mattered anyway. The major cities on the planet were busy anytime of the day.

Booker sat at a bench, situated in the middle of Dracanna plaza. The place was like candy to the eye. Anywhere you looked were flashy neon lights and diverse holographic displays that seem to dot every inch of the plaza. The plaza was swarmed with people too, hundreds of them crowding the elevated quadrangle getting to wherever they had to go. Overhead, the dulling whine of hundreds of air-speeders electrified the energy down here. However, Booker was able to center his thoughts enough to not allow himself to be engulfed by the vivid scenery. His mind was too much in conflict as to why he was sitting here in the first place.

This was the rendezvous Booker had loosely agreed to meet that young woman—Ahoska she claimed her name was. He still didn't know what to think about her, but everything she said last night pushed every button in Booker's head. It almost seemed too coincidental, like she was just feeding him what he wanted to hear. How could she had known about the kidnappings? Could she be in with these people and is just acting as a plant to draw Booker out after he snagged Shrahbi?

Yeah…that had to be it. He rattled some cages and nothing else made sense to Booker besides this entire thing being a sham. And boy was he ready for such an outcome…

Not only was he armed… like always, but Booker came extra outfitted today. Under his usual attire, Booker wore a retrofitted shield generator salvaged from a destroyed CIS Droideka unit. He acquired the shield from a blackmarket's dealer with the thought of knowing he'll need the extra protection when handling multiple perps at once.

With that added reassurance, Booker sat calmly, watching the crowds of people straddle by as he fought from checking his holo-pad for the time. So far, he's been waiting for a little over thirty minutes since arriving at the plaza at the stroke of noon.

Maintaining his awareness, Booker kept his hands in his coat pockets—each hand wrapped around the handle of his twinset DL-6H's. His heart raced, despite the cool demander he held on his face. This was the furthest he's ever gotten with the case, and he was more terrified in screwing up than dying. His one and final chance to get at the bottom of this—of finally catching the people responsible for murdering his wife and tore their six month old daughter, Ann, from her dead hands…

Caught in the moments of his deep thoughts, Booker nearly jumped in fright when a hooded figure sat in the empty space beside him on the bench. He flinched, whipping out one of his pistols only to relax when he recognized his unexpected new guest's voice.

"Plan on shooting someone else with that thing?" She said, clearly being sarcastic. It was her, the girl from the warehouse, Ahsoka.

Booker sighed, easing the dense coil in his gut. "Scared the hell outta me." He muttered, pocketing the pistol. Calmed down a bit, Booker went on to say, "you came alone?"

It took her a moment to reply. When she did, she didn't look in his direction, her gaze looking straight. "I'm always alone," she finally said. Quickly she added, "sorry for being late… traffic."

"Let's just get to the point here," Booker said. "The abductions… tell me what you know about them."

"I assume as much as you, thus far," Ahsoka began to say, her voice low—face hidden behind that hood of hers, though Booker can make out her headtails. She went on, "a family with a newborn would be targeted…parents killed…child taken away each time…"

"You know anything about a masked man?" Booker uttered out even before his mind could process.

The randomness of the question was enough to gather Ahsoka's attention. She wore a look of bewilderment and shook her head. "Masked man?"

Booker could tell she was lost with where he was going with this, or just really good at playing nonchalance. Either way, he was getting ahead of himself with revealing this information. He had to stow his banthas and bite into this thing bit by bit.

He shook his head, "no…it's just I've stumbled across reports that a masked man was amongst the people who perpetrated the murders and kidnappings," Booker half lied. "Ever since then… the guy's trial ran cold. I haven't been able to pin anything on the son-of-a bitch in nearly twenty years…" He abruptly closed his mouth, noting that he was over-explaining himself here.

He brought his eyes back to Ahsoka, who was now sharing his gaze. "Back at the warehouse, it sounded like you were more on these people than I ever was."

She modestly nodded her head then went on to say, "they call themselves the Family."

Booker felt his blood drain as he leaned in slightly to absorb her quiet words.

"They mostly comprise of humans and they run things very close to the ground."

"How big is their organization?" Booker asks, his voice speeding pass his teeth. "They got connections with the Hutts—Black Suns—slavers?"

She shook her head then said, "I just know what they're called and that each of the kidnappings is tied to them."

"Why do they take the children?" Booker asked. "Where do they take them—how do they get…?"

"Like I said," Ahsoka spoke, invading his sentence. She turned her gaze to the plaza ahead of them. "I just know what they called themselves. I don't know where they go with the children…"

Booker remained quiet, sensing she had more to say.

"But…" she continued, looking his way again. He just made out her eyes from under the shadow of her cloak. "I do know a guy who does…"

His heart sank just a bit, "so hold on," Booker began to say, holding back the abrasiveness in his tone. "You brought me way out here just to drag me along to see some other guy funneled up in this mess?" He shook his head, coughing a disappointed laugh. "Sorry sister, but my trust can only go so far."

Ahsoka simply nodded her head, looking away from Booker. "I understand your suspicions," she said. "And I can't fully persuade you into not thinking I'm playing you as a fool. Which means it's up to you, Mr. DeWitt. You either take my offer…come with me, or this is where we go our separate ways."

"Aye," Booker griped. "I've been working this case since you were in diapers!" He jabbed a thumb to himself. "I came across many false leads and setbacks…but I always kept coming back. You know why—because I'm patient. So no, I won't take your offer. Because how do I know there won't be a knife to my back when this all blows over, huh?"

She didn't respond for a moment, resonating an awkward silence between them. Just then, a glint of self-consciousness began to eat away at Booker. He hated how he let his feelings take over and blind his judgment, setting him on a collision course with destruction. And his gut was at odds of taking Ahsoka's offer—knowing it may very well be the last decision he'd ever make…or he can take the easy way out and just walk away.

Before he could make up his mind, Ahsoka rose up from the bench and strolled a few steps away. She stopped, turned to meet Booker and said, "then maybe you should stop being patient and take a chance, Mr DeWitt."

She held no anger or disappointment in her voice, she only spoke the truth. She bowed slightly then turned and began to walk away.

Feeling his only chance slipping away, Booker chewed at his lower lip before springing up off the bench after Ahsoka. Hand outstretched to touch her shoulder, the young woman turned and met his gaze, almost as if she anticipated it.

Blinking the surprised look off his face and retracting his arm, Booker said. "Take me…" he paused before continuing with, "I'll come with you." Was his way of saying that he took her offer, and she looked glad to hear it.

"Follow me," she said, facing back in the direction she was heading. "My air-speeder isn't far."

Booker hesitated for a moment before following behind. He finally withdrew his hands from his pockets concealing his two pistols and was slightly at ease. Still, the coiling pit of anxiety remained. He matched Ahsoka's pace as the pair made their way through the plaza.

Coming their way, Booker made out a pair of Stormtroopers. Their cream white uniforms weren't hard to miss, especially in the dingy darkness that enveloped Nar Shaddaa. But it surprised him that the newly founded Imperial State had established a footing in this quadrant of the galaxy.

People in the crowds parted ways for the advancing troopers, well, some did anyway. Many people on this world could give a rat's ass for the Empire. Booker has heard of some of the harsh laws they laid out in territory that used to be the Republic. But none of that would fly out here on Nar Shaddaa or anywhere in the Outer Rim, that is. Life was pretty much hell as it was.

When the soldiers were nearly upon them, Booker saw Ahsoka's shoulders tense from under her cloak. He didn't say anything… just thought it was a bit unusual. Ever since he's been around the young woman, he hadn't seen her crumble under the pressure of intimidation.

Once the armed soldiers marched on by, Booker glanced at Ahsoka catching her looking back at them.

"Everything alright?" He asked. "You seem a bit nervous."

She turned looking back ahead, "the speeders' not far, let's go."

Obviously dodging the question, Booker went along with it, not trying to put a strain their brief partnership.

* * *

It was a short ride to the place Ahsoka said that they'll meet her contact, a guy who supposedly was a back door to these people calling themselves the 'Family'. Booker had no idea what to expect as the speeder came to a halt in front a busy tavern in the downtown sector of the city. Looking up at the flashy holographic sign above the entrance, Booker can recall being at this place in the past. He spent hundreds of credits here drinking himself into a drunken coma. In those years, he saw little hope in anything, but the thirst of vengeance was enough to quench his alcoholic addiction and get back on his feet.

"So, this the place?" He asked Ahsoka, placing his hands on his hips.

"He's down this way," Ahsoka said, passing Booker by and stepping down the dark and narrow throughway, adjacent to the tavern.

He followed after the young woman, trialing a few feet behind. His eyes were sharp, examining every nook and space for anything suspicious. He still wasn't totally convinced that this meeting was a set up…that an assassin was lying in wait, stuck to the shadows of the alley. If there was, Booker was more than prepared. However, given the limited mobility of this alleyway—along with the near darkness of it all besides a few holographic and neon lights stung about… his odds weren't looking so good.

Stepping pass dozens of passer-byers in his wake, Booker saw Ahsoka up ahead, standing off to the side along with another person—a fellow human who looked nervous enough already. Booker approached the two, instantly grabbing the jittery attention from the man.

"You DeWitt?" He asked, his eyes shifted erratically in their sockets as the man examined Booker's face.

"You her contact?" Booker said back, gesturing towards Ahsoka.

He nodded a shaky head, his body tensed under his large, fur-coat—possibly from the chilly daytime air… or it could just be nerves.

"So you're the guy who's been chasing the Family…" the man said. He shook his head, "man… surprised you're still breathing."

"What's your connection with this… _Family?_ " Booker asked. "How do you know so much about them?"

The man took a nervous look around at the people passing by over Booker's shoulders. He then said, "I know who they are, what they're capable of."

"You mean you know where their operation is?" Booker asks, taking out his holo-pad and configuring it to take notes. Once he was finish with the set up, he looked back up at the taller man. "How big is it—how many people are involved?"

The other man shook his head, "you don't get it," he stuttered. "These people aren't like the Hutts or any other criminal organization. They don't work for credits or riches… they trade blood for blood."

Booker dropped an eyebrow as he stopped jotting notes on his holo-pad.

"You mean they're some sort of following? Like a death-cult or something?"

The taller man shook his head, his rigid body swaying back and forth in stance to generate warmth from the whipping winds. "Worse than that… more like religious fanatics—and they don't give a crap who gets in their way."

"What's their deal with kidnapping adolescents?" Booker asked. "Where do they take them?"

This time, the other man looked to Ahsoka, standing off to the side with her hood still drawn over her face. "You didn't tell em'?" He asked her.

"What?" Booker said, his eyes shifted from the man to Ahsoka. "Tell me what? What are you hiding from me?"

"Not here?" Ahsoka uttered.

Booker rolled his eyes, "great, we're back on this again?!"

"Just trust me, alright?" Ahsoka said, her tone and the look in her eye bitter. "We shouldn't be discussing this out in the public anyway." She looked to the other man and he nodded, knowing in advance what's to come next. Without a word, the other man began to walk off along with Ahsoka right behind. Neither said a word, but Booker took the silent cue to follow.

A short walk later and the trio were inside the tavern. Loud techno and pop music dampened against Booker's ears. The darkness of the bar was painted with the glow of laser lights dancing across the floor, walls and ceiling. Keeping well away from the dozens of party goers, Booker follows Ahsoka and the other man down a set of wooden stairs and into a clammy cemented hallway. Down here, the sounds of the club upstairs was nothing more than a distant thump that resonated shallowly through the walls. The heavy scent of cigar smoke filled the short corridor, which ended at a sharp left corner into a deep shadowy area.

Both the man and Ahsoka round the corner, following Booker who kept his eyes and ears open for any surprises. He didn't know why he was still on edge, if Ahsoka was leading him on she was surely dragging it out at this point. And even her new friend seems a bit legit… after declaring he knows exactly who or what this Family is, so he guess he can trust them. For now, that was.

Turning the darken corner, Booker hesitated at the threshold of a doorway: beyond that was a room, warmly lit with a glow rod. He stepped through the doorway and immediate found the room smaller than it looked from the outside.

The other man removed his coat, revealing a simple getup of coveralls beneath.

"Close the door behind you," he said to Booker, of which he complied.

Silence immediately engulfs the small room, only the faintest bass from the music at the bar snaked its way in. Booker turned his attention away from the closed door and soaked in his immediate surroundings. The room was outfitted like an office, quickly shammed together as if overnight. There was a simple desk and file cabinet situated on one side, and a coatrack and glow rod stood on the other, leaving one corner of the room in near shadow. There also wasn't any windows, which made the area more claustrophobic than it already was.

"Come here," the other man said, waving Booker over. "Help me move this."

Setting his holo-pad on the desk, Booker went over to the front facing wall where the other man had pointed out.

"Get on the other end, we have to move this wall."

Complying, Booker stood on the opposite end of the wall and helped slide it out the way, revealing what was hidden behind. His mouth almost dropped open when his eyes landed on a patchwork of hardcopy photographs, paper documents and newsletters interconnected by color coded strings.

"What is this place?" Booker asked, his eyes continue to examine the full scope of the wall in front of him.

" _This_ , is all me," the other man said, speaking from behind Booker. "Like you, I've also been keeping tabs on the family. Every murder… every kidnapping ever since they've made their presence known on Nar Shaddaa and the Outer Rim."

Booker was half listening when his attention was grabbed by a report on the wall.

"The rodian triplets from Lothal…" he exclaimed. "I covered that case…I-I was there." Booker turned to face the other man who was leaning casually against the desk where Ahsoka sat on top, her legs dangling over the edge. She had her hood off now.

"That case was over a decade ago," Booker went on. "You've been there since the beginning."

The other man simply nodded with a half shrug. "I got few connects here and there."

"Why? What's your stake in it all?"

"What I said before," the man began to say. "I know what these people are capable of." He slid his hand off the desk and folded his arms. "I've been trying to stop them for years… but they always seem to be one step ahead of the game."

"Until _now_ , that is," Ahsoka said.

"Right," the other man sighed, rubbing the blonde stubble at his chin. He turned away from Booker, going over towards the make shift inquiry board. He plucked a printed photograph off the chart and handed it to Booker.

"What's this?" Booker asked, examining the black and white photograph. From what he can tell right away is that the photo depicts the front of a housing project throughway. The street is sparsely populated, spare a dozen or so figures standing just out of frame.

"Are these them? The Family?" Booker asked, glancing up at the man in front of him.

The other man shook his head, "no, but it's pretty damn close. The Family don't openly operate in the public eye—they filter through proxies…go betweens."

"Like Shrahbi," Ahsoka added.

"Yeah, that rat bastard," Booker graveled out. He disposed of the weequay's remains by simply burying him in a shallow ditch. Not out of sentiment, just out of habit of not leaving a trace that'll fall back to him. Still, he's confident that nothing or anyone would be tailing him in the fallout of that situation.

"Most of the Family's dirty work is done by using outsiders," the other man explains, leaning against the opposite wall. "Mercenaries…spice runners and the likes. Now a lot of these guys are professionals, hardly any of them ever leave a trace that ties them back to the Family. But… up until a week ago… they finally made a fumble."

The man moved off the wall and went over to the file cabinet. He searched around a bit before dumbing a file on to the desk and flipping it open. A few dozen enlarged photo prints spill out. Candid pictures of people and places… none that Booker ever recognized. Still, he was taken aback by the amount of detail, time and effort this one guy had put into this whole thing. And here Booker thought he was obsess over all this.

"Little ova a week ago," the man began to say, grabbing a picture and sliding it across the desktop towards Booker. "A supply ship arrived at the space port at Undercity."

The image was dark and fuzzy at best; the image of the ship was taken from afar, from behind a chainlink fence. Booker was somewhat familiar with the spaceport—mostly how it was dominated by smugglers and slavers alike. He even stoked the place out a few months back following a rash of serial abductions, hoping to catch wind of the perps then. He came up empty, obviously. But now, he knew he was going from lukewarm to hot.

"Now the guys running this ship…." The man continued. "They left a messy trail that lead them back to the Family's front door."

"What makes you so sure about that?" Booker asked.

A grin formulated on the man's once flatten face. "Because they have this." He pulls out another photograph, except this one didn't show a person nor place… but a thing. It was a strange looking object, like a piece of jewelry or a talisman.

"What is it?" Booker asked.

"Our way in stopping the Family," Ahsoka said.

Booker examined the object in the photograph harder. He saw that it was shaped more like a key, given that one side was made up of jagged teeth that ended in a pronounced edge. Engraved in the face of the item was a depiction of a structure which resembled a tower of some kind.

"So how does this thing help us in stopping these bastards?" Booker asked. "Why can't we just plant a tracker on their ship and just follow them back to wherever they came from?"

"Tried that," Ahsoka said with the dismissive shake of the head, her headtails swaying along. "Too many hired guns at the spaceport. Impervious to bribes…" she swiveled her gaze over to her counterpart, "amongst _other_ things…" Booker caught the twinkle in her eye and the subtle hint of smile that played across the other man's lips. He doesn't question what she meant by that statement, he just passed it off as an inside joke between the pair. They trust each other, Booker picked up on that as well. Yet he also sensed that there was something else that resonated between them.

"Planting a tracker or bribing a guard isn't going to get you anywhere near these guys," the other man said. "The moment we make a move that they see… we'll never have an opportunity like this ever again."

Nodding his head in understanding, Booker said. "Alright then, so what's the game plan? How do we get the jump on these guys without scaring them off?"

"The key," the other man said, pressing a finger on the photograph. "We need to get our hands on one. Otherwise, the Family and their lapdogs will always be one step ahead of us."

"I gotta ask," Booker said. "Why the keys? What's so important about them?"

Booker watched the other man's expression as he processed how he'd explain it. After a while, he simply yet vaguely said, "wherever they go, you'll be able to go."

"Not sure if I follow," Booker admitted with the shake of his head. "But you two seem to be the experts in all this. If this key would help bring down these bastards. Then let's go get it."


	4. Four

**CHAPTER IV**

 _Room 515_

* * *

Detora Inn, a series of average hotel chains dotted across the galaxy was on Booker's mind as he descended the stairs of the monorail station and stepped onto the buzzling main street of one of Nar Shaddaa's most notorious district. Slag Town.

Now the name may sound like a place you'll go to get a quickie and catch an alien STD at the same time… because that's exactly what will happen. Slag Town was Nar Shaddaa's red light district, where interspecies prostitution occurred out in the open and pimps outnumbered any ordinary person ten to one on every street corner. There were more sex clubs than fast-food joints on any given block, featuring women—and even men of any known species where you can get your rocks off, for a hefty ass price that was.

Booker never wasted any of his time nor money at such venues, knowing the sick and atrocious truth behind their existence. It didn't take a smartass to know that more than half the thousands of sex-workers that generate millions of credits annual were slaves. They're under the brutish leash of Nal Hutta and their criminal overlords cash in on it all, to further fuel their sadistic pleasures.

Setting a quick pace, Booker quickly walked down the middle of Main Street, flanked by a blanket of neon /holographic declarative buildings advertising their 'pleasure-play', to hundreds of horny passer-byers. His gaze to the ground, Booker refused to look around him, sinking his head between the flaps of his jacket collar. He knew if he did look into any of the faces, he'll pick out the weariness written across the male and female prostitutes forced to work the streets. He could always see through their false facades… their over-exaggerated cat-calling that hid the prolonged agony and bodily bruising inflicted on them by their handlers.

He bumped into a body, which brought his gaze up just a moment. The guy Booker walked into staggered but caught his balance. It didn't take Booker long to smell the heavy booze on the male sulustan's breath.

"Sorry," Booker uttered through a chest tight with air. He continued on his way, towards the end of the block where his destination would be.

Coming off Main Street, Booker made a hard left onto Hutt Avenue… one of the longest damn streets in Undercity. Just take a guess why?

The extravagate display of lights and neon diminished just a bit on this street, replaced by compact buildings that hugged the throughway, casting heavy black shadows across the pavement. A sense of claustrophobia always chocked Booker whenever he came down this dark street. It wasn't the sense that someone was following him, but the overall physical build of the street. Directly overhead was the elevated monorail track, which made the streetway even darker and denser than it already was. Still, there were a number of flashy advertisement signs of sex houses, taverns and pawn shops that lit the way throughout. On the next block was Booker's destination, and he was itching to get there.

Keeping to the sidewalk, he shuffled on. Crossing the last intersection, Booker nearly tripped over his own feet when his gaze became locked on a small, human girl.

She stood across the intersection, the curls of her bright blonde hair looked almost comical, along with the large blue eyes on her dirt smeared face. Her eyes connected with Booker's for just a split second before being severed by a vehicle coming to a halt. A door to the vehicle popped open and a human man, dressed in a suit and hat came and yanked the girl by the arm rather aggressively towards the idling craft. Booker instinctively jolted forward, his heart in his chest. He forced himself to stop when he eyed the figure sitting in the backseat of the luxurious land-speeder. It was a slimy Hutt, licking its meaty fingers upon reaching out and grabbing the terrified human girl from the opposite seat and squatting her down in its lap. Her expression paled and fear show from her eyes as the Hutt's disgusting arm stroked at the terrified child's hair.

Booker felt his blood beginning to broil and he clenched his teeth as an intense heat of buring rage infested his veins. Disgusted at the disturbing scene unfolding right in the middle of this busy intersection, Booker reached into the folds of his jacket, withdrawing his Power 5…

"Hey!" A voice yelped close to his ear, nearly jumping him out of his skin.

Booker snapped his head to the left where he caught Ahsoka's shocked gaze starring up at him. He had totally forgotten that the young woman was walking with him the entire time, he must had walked ahead of her in his desperate retreat to reach their destination. Only, upon seeing him drawing the P5 did she spring into motion, preventing him from acting out. She held a firm hand around Booker's elbow, stopping him from bringing the weapon to bear.

"Easy now," she said with a low yet apprehensive tone. "Just… calm down, okay?"

Her words penetrated the ringing intensity in Booker's ears and culled the hatred that overtook him. All of a sudden, the fingers in his right hand began to sting from the harden grip he had on his weapon. Recapturing his emotional state, Booker quickly concealed the weapon and took a shallow breath to cancel the lightheadedness that now clouded his brain.

Easing the tension in his muscles, Booker felt Ahsoka's hand slip from his arm and she looked relived that he finally calmed.

"You okay?" She asked.

He nodded his head, "y-yeah… I'll…I'll be fine," he said. He turned and looked back at the intersection where the land-speeder took the girl. It was gone now…with the little girl, and the street corner was vacant.

"Let's just get to that hotel," Booker said, forcing himself into motion again. Ahsoka said nothing in return, she just fell in step next to him. All the while, his mind continued to replay the final image of that girl's face as she was swept away. If Ahsoka didn't intervene… Booker didn't know what he would've done. Then again, he had to remind himself…

 _Can't save everyone without consequence._

The abducted girl wasn't his priority, he forced himself to disclose. Seeing that a Hutt was involved, Booker knew he'd be painting a target on his back if he took action. On Nar Shaddaa, the Hutts ruled above all else—hell, this entire corner of the Galaxy was their playground. And Booker already had a tight schedule to maintain, pursuing that land-speeder would just complicate an already convoluted situation. He and Ahsoka had an open window in finally getting the jump on the Family and stop them before they could strike again. A window he knew would close if he side tracked. And then maybe… when this is all over, he'll be saving multiple lives from being destroyed like his was. Or even that girl's, in some way or another.

* * *

It was a change of atmosphere when Booker finally passed through the glass revolving door and entered upon the aesthetic and well-lit foyer of the Detora Inn hotel. Escaping the callousness from outside only subsides the dense coil weighing down in his gut. A warm yellow light painted the entire foyer space, and the place held the scent of fresh pine needle drifting in the climate controlled air. The bustling noise from outside was instantly cancelled out by the soundproofed glass and walls, and was replaced by the smoothing melody of soft music playing from hidden speakers in the ornate ceiling.

Booker and Ahsoka crossed the floor, their collective steps echoed sharply across the polished marble, grabbing the attention from the male rodian custodian behind the desk. Booker recognized the scrawny alien, dressed in a casual suit that looked a size too big as he neared.

"Mr. DeWitt," Modart said genially as a way of greeting. The rodian plastered what Booker guessed was a practiced smile, folding his clammy long fingers upon the desk ledge in front of him.

"Modart," Booker returned the greeting, coming to a halt in front of the desk, unbuttoning the length of his jacket.

The rodian's dark, pupiless eyes shifted to Ahsoka.

"You brought _friend_ this time?" Modart said, his heavily accented Basic dripping with curiosity, starring at Ahsoka keenly. The young woman beamed a heated eye at the rodian, of which the alien sunk just a bit.

Booker shook his head, "no—it's not like that, Modart" he uttered with a slight laugh, erasing whatever negative presumptions the rodian held in his head. "I'm working again. She's an acquaintance helping me with a case."

Modart coughed a nervous laugh, relaxing his tensed body language. "Oh… right—of course." The rodian began to type quickly on the computer at his side. "So… usual arrangements, then?"

"Not this time," Booker said. "Let me get a room overlooking Star-Forge Boulevard. Room 507 to be exact."

"My apologies, Mr. Dewitt," Modart spoke after a short inquiry on his database. "Room 507 is occupied. But Modart can usher you and your… _acquaintance_ down hall in 515."

"It still overlooks that street?" Booker wanted to know.

Modart nodded his head, "yes indeed, Mr. Dewitt—but Modart should advice… monorail track close next to window. Would recommend a room higher for better view."

Booker shook his head, whipping out his holo-pad. "It's not like we're on vacation here."

After making payment arrangements, Modart handed Booker the room card. Thanking the clerk, he and Ahsoka were heading off towards the elevator, when Modart called after them.

"Modart apologize in advance," the rodian began to say, coming from behind the desk, a thin object tucked under his armpit. "But weapons are no longer allowed upstairs with guest."

Booker shrugged innocently, "who said I have any weapons?"

" _This,_ " Modart presented the thin object—a datapad— which displayed the name and even the module type of the blasters Booker was carrying. There was even an image of a humanoid silhouette next to the listing that highlighted the areas in which the weapons were concealed on Booker's body.

 _That's new,_ he mused.

"Sorry, Mr. DeWitt," Modart apologizes again, setting the datapad down on the desk. "But this cannot be tolerated at this particular Detora Inn. You will turn in blasters at once."

For a moment, Booker said nothing, until uttering, "I'm sorry… _what_?"

"New Policy," Modart further elaborated, his tone serious as he intertwined his stubby fingers. "You have to check them in at front desk now."

Dumbfounded, Booker glanced to Ahsoka who only shrugged with the slight shake of the head. Turning his attention back to the skinny rodian, Booker coughed an unbelievable laugh. "What is this, Modart? What—you guys finally got tired of calling the corners to this place?"

The rodian's approachable body language tightened and the snout in front of his face twitched slightly. "Modart got tired of cleaning blood of bedsheets!" He partially hissed. "Modart no like blood—no like blasters in Detora Inn."

Booker took a step towards the scrawny alien, "my blasters aren't going anywhere without me," he proclaimed.

All of a sudden, three ominous figures silently entered the foyer space. Two rodian and a red-eyed-blue skinned chiss, all male, and dressed in casual leather jackets and jeans. But Booker saw pass their nonchalant getup, spotting the set of blasters hanging off their hips, partially hidden behind the trim of their jackets.

"Do not test Modart, _Dewitt_ ," Modart warned, spewing Booker's name with contempt. "Hand in blasters, now."

Clenching his teeth behind concealed lips, Booker knew he couldn't intimidate Modart enough to slip through. Not if he wanted the hired help from filling him up with blaster bolts. Besides, dying over something as trivial as this would just dishonor his wife's memory.

Sighing through his nostrils, Booker said, "alright Modart. You win." He reached into his jacket instantly conjuring a cautious response from the three armed guys standing behind the rodian.

"Relax," Booker said to them. Slowly withdrawing his hand, advertising the Power 5 in a non-threating manner and placing it on the desk. Next were the twinset 6H's he drew from each coat pocket.

"There still one piece remaining…" Modart said, indicating an accusing finger at Booker's waistline.

Booker sighed, and unclipped the personal shield generator he had clipped to his belt and tossed it on the desk along with the rest of his arsenal. An intense silence hung in the air as Modart waved two of three armed gunmen over to confiscate Booker's weapons. Scurrying off with his equipment, Booker fought to keep himself still.

Until they had disappeared into a side room Booker had only now noticed, did Modart turn in his direction and said, "enjoy your stay, Mr. Dewitt."

The practice pleasantries returned in the rodian's voice. It only made Booker's eye twitch.

"Mr. Dewitt…" Ahsoka's voice dragged him out of his heated trance. The young woman beckoned towards the elevator door further down the foyer. Putting one foot in front of the other, Booker followed after her, feeling all but naked without his blasters.

* * *

Ahsoka was quiet the entire elevator ride, but Booker sensed that she wanted to say something in response to what occurred down in the foyer just moments ago. He didn't bother bringing it up, or trying to explain the situation to her. So far, Booker noted that she was handling everything quite well. He half expected her to question his confrontational behavior with Modart or when he nearly blasted that Hutt pedophile away. But she never even breathe a word about it. Booker was never good at working with a partner, but he was glad he had one who remained on the case…even when he derailed.

The elevator doors opened to floor five and the pair stepped off and down the narrow corridor. Their room was all the way down the hall.

"Here we are…" Ahsoka said, flicking the door card in her hands. "Room 515."

 _Yay…_ Booker mused dryly inwardly with a shallow sigh.

She slid the keycard into the receiver and the lock clicked once. The two entered upon a room tainted in darkness until the motion sense lights sprung on, eliminating the darkness in a warm yellow hue. Ahsoka crossed the carpeted floor space, towards the window, Booker joined her. She drew the curtain back revealing the metal bulk of the monorail track hovering a few feet away from the window. Apart from that, the view of the street below is unobstructed… but there was one problem.

"That lying son of a bitch," Booker cursed. "We can hardly see the building from here."

"We still have a view, though," Ahsoka said, remaining optimistic.

"Yeah, not a very good one," Booker muttered, retreating from the window, heading back towards the doorway.

"We can still make this work, Mr DeWitt," Ahsoka said after him.

He sighed through his nostrils, withdrawing his hand from the doorknob and preventing himself from heading back downstairs to confront Modart.

"It may not be perfect," she continued, turning away from the window and giving him her full attention. "But it's doable. And I doubt, after the episode with Modart, that he'll be kind enough to switch our room."

He knew she was right, and Booker needed to calm the irritation that has been biting him ever since he and Ahsoka ventured to Undercity. It had to be nerves getting at him… of knowing the fact that he's literally one step closer and finally getting the drop on the Family. He's… he was afraid of making a mistake, and he was allowing his worries to drive his thought processes. But what shocked him the most was how tranquil Ahsoka was around his overstressed behavior. It was almost like it didn't bother her at all, though Booker had a sense that she was shielding her true feelings from being visible. He had to cut the hidden tension between them if they were to continue this collaboration.

"I'm sorry," Booker sighed walking back into the room, flopping down on the edge of the bed and massaging a hand at the back of his neck. "I know I haven't been the most stable person you've been around…"

"Mr. Dewitt…" Ahsoka attempted to say, but Booker went on to speak.

"But I appreciate your patients with me," he said, looking in her direction this time. "I'm not really a people's person… obviously." He paused for a moment, considering what he's going to say next. "But I'm glad you came along."

She didn't say anything right away, probably taken aback by all of what he said. It may not have seemed like he valued their partnership in her eyes, but Booker had to confess that it felt good to have an extra pair of eyes. He had forgotten what that felt like… it's been years.

"I take kindly your words, Mr. DeWitt," Ahsoka finally said, her tone soft. "But we really should start setting things up."

Knowing what she meant, Booker ran a clammy hand over his face then pulled off his coat. There was no doubt that they'll be here for a long while.

* * *

Several hours—three and half to be exact, had gone by since Booker and Ahsoka arrived at their room. It was close to the local midnight hours, and there still hasn't been a bite from their prey. The light to their room was off, casting a ghostly shade of night mixed with the deep kaleidoscope array of neon that painted the floor.

Washing his hands at the sink, after emptying his bladder that had accumulated an hours' worth of piss, Booker exited the bathroom and stepped back into the bleakness of the room.

"Anything?" He asked Ahsoka, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

"Nope," she sighed in a yawn.

She sat on top the bed with both knees held up to her chest. Her arms clutched around her raised knees and her head balanced on top. The side of her body exposed to the stark lighting of the window highlighted a glowing silhouette, leaving the other side of her body in shadow.

Booker crossed the room, passing her by and going over towards the window. The curtains had been fully drawn back, allowing the full view of the intersection below to filter in. Modart wasn't entirely true to his word, the view from the room only gave partial view to Star-Forge Boulevard. In actuality, only the corner of the street, overlooking the buzzing four way intersection was visible. Hundreds of people of different races and backgrounds passed one another below. It was nearly impossible to pick out one or multiple faces from the shifting crowds that crisscrossed the streets haphazardly and intermixed so frequently. Fortunately, Booker and his acquaintance didn't have to single out a lone face amongst a hundred. Their holo-pads were doing most of the legwork for them.

Utilizing some of the top-of-the-line facial recognition software acquired off the black-market—provided by Ahsoka's contact Booker met a day earlier—should make this job a lot easier. Ahsoka's guy proclaimed that this technology can even ID an individual's head shape from virtually any angle from one-hundred meters away. Combined with the multi focus function on the holo-pad's embedded camera, it should only be a matter of time.

Having already programed the facial recognition plugin to single out human faces that match the description of the hard photos from Ahsoka's contact's sources, should make this tasks a cakewalk. However, even with all that fancy show and tell… it's been nearly four hours and still nothing.

"I don't get it," Booker said rolling his neck and earning an audible crack of the stiff muscles being relived. "This should be like hitting the broad side of a cruiser at pointblank range. Gotta be missing something."

"Nothing's missing," Ahsoka said from behind. Her voice short of a near whisper. "Just have to wait a little bit longer."

"Been sitting here for hours," Booker said, folding his hands behind his head, embracing into a comfortable stretch. He blew a calm breath and relaxed his body, collapsing into a wooden chair prompted next to the window. Crisscrossing his feet at the ankle, Booker leaned back, fighting to keep his eyes open and trained on the two levitating holo-pads suspended a meter off the floor by their antigrav tripods. His ears desperately awaited the chirping indication that they had at least one of the guys in the Family's payroll in their sight.

"Dangerous cases are always the dullest," Booker found himself mumbling behind a hand pressed against his jaw.

He wasn't sure if Ahsoka was going to say anything in return, given the lengthy gap between his sentence and the silence that followed. But then she said, "I'm sure you've done this kind of thing before?"

"Yeah, pretty much what my job is, really," he said, keeping his eye glued to the tiny holographic screen of the holo-pads, loitering the facial recognition software in action.

"Well," Booker went on. " _Was_ anyway..." When Ahsoka didn't come back on his words, he decided to just tell her straight away. "Got fired…used 'overly excessive force' on a person of interest," Booker said, air quoting the final bit of his sentence.

This time, Ahsoka breathed what sounded like a laugh. "I can only imagine," she said—clearly holding back laughter. Was it impartial or mocking… Booker couldn't tell, and really, he didn't care. He had done some brutish things in his days as a PI. Some he wasn't entirely proud of, but other incidents he wasn't so forgiving to sweep under the rug. He preferred to get his own hands dirty than allow someone else to plunge their own into the filth. Some called him a monster… others a necessary force unleashed upon the greater evils that lurked the shadows of the Galaxy.

Seeking to change the subject off him, Booker said. "Y'know, I never got your involvement in all this. I mean, I get your friend back at his clubhouse, he's sorta like me… wanting to stop the family and all."

"And you're getting at?" Ahsoka said, her tone indicated that she knew where Booker was going with this.

"I'm just trying to understand you, is all," Booker said, half turning in his seat. "I mean you saw me kill a guy the other day and barely made a fuss about it."

"You did what you thought was necessary at the moment," she said. "And I'm not saying he deserved it… but a guy like Shrahbi had it coming eventually."

 _That he did,_ Booker nodded his head in agreement. He liked Ahsoka's demeanor. She didn't look like someone who could hold her own on Nar Shaddaa when Booker first laid eyes on her. But now, he was beginning to form a new picture of the young woman in a different light.

"So you and your dungeon pal have been after these guys for quite some time too, huh?" He asked, avoiding from digging too deep into her personal involvement by mentioning her friend.

"His name's Gale," she corrected, not out of spite but as a way in letting Booker know. She relaxed in her sitting position on the bed, allowing her legs to extend out as she went on. "And he's actually been trailing the Family long before I joined him."

"How'd you two meet?" Booker asked.

"Much like you and I did," Ahsoka answered, tucking the length of one of her headtails behind her shoulder. "Following a lead," her gaze fell distant, the moister in her eyes reflected the beam of artificial light angling in through the window. A thin smile soon came across her lips, "I… I actually ended up rescuing him—from himself actually…" She stopped a laugh from coming up, covering her mouth with a hand.

Intrigued, Booker retuned an actually smile and asked, "what happened?"

Ahsoka shook her head, removing her hand from her mouth. "No—it was nothing really. Gale was investigating this apartment and… he somehow ended up hanging out a window…" unable to hold back the urge to laugh, Ahsoka did so.

"It's not funny," She said after recovering. "But the look on his face… I laugh every time I see it."

Booker merely smiled, involuntary this time. His mind trialed back to the moment Ahsoka mentioned she and Gale were on to something involving the Family.

"You said you and Gale were after a lead?" He mentioned.

The smile and laughter behind her, Ahsoka went on to explain. "It was an abduction in progress. The Family targeted a quarren newborn. I caught wind of the situation and hurried to do something, only the Family were gone with the child before I could arrive."

"What happened to the parents?" Booker asked.

"Weren't home at the time," Ahsoka said. "The kidnappers escaped on an air-speeder before Gale or I could go after them."

Booker nodded his head to her explanation. Only then did he remember something both Ahsoka and Gale mentioned but didn't fully elaborate on.

"I remember back in the alley," Booker began to say. "I asked you guys as to why the Family take infants…"

He didn't need to say more, he sensed that Ahsoka knew where he was getting at.

"This is just speculation, Mr. DeWitt," she began to say, sitting at the edge of the bed and giving Booker her full attention. "But… Gale believes that each the newborns taken are… Force Sensitive."

For a moment, Booker just stared at Ahsoka, processing that hypothesis in his mind and extrapolating it to cases in the past he investigated. Only, when he thought far back enough did he feel his blood chill with a mixture of startling insight and exhilaration all at once. He hid the notion from resonating on his face, but everything behind the actions of these abductions began to make sense to Booker. And the main assailant—the Masked Man—behind it all, did as well.

He can recall many years ago, when his wife was pregnant with Ann that their unborn daughter was special. His wife held a particular interest in the Jedi and their ability to use the Force that any other ordinary being lacked. Booker never really cared either way about their mysterious Order. The Jedi never held any significances to him. When his wife went into labor and welcomed Ann to their family, the Jedi and the Force was the last thing on Booker's mind. He saw his entirely life flash before his eyes when he held his daughter for the first time. He felt that all the dirt he'd done in the past was magically lifted and his new life had officially began. But all hopes of the future evaporated on that unfaithful day. When his life changed forever and molded him into the man he was now.

"Mr. DeWitt…?" Ahsoka called out to him in his extensive absents of words.

"Your friend's analysis may be right," he finally said. "Abducting Force adapt children is big game for sentient traffickers. And with the Jedi all but gone… it's even easier than ever now."

"Not exactly," Ashoka disagreed. "In order to track down someone strong in the Force—an adolescents at that matter was only a trade the Jedi knew. They used special technologies to find future Jedi…inside knowledge. For any person outside the Order… it was practically impossible."

 _Not for the Family or the Masked Man, it wasn't,_ Booker reflected.

"You sure know a lot about this thing the Jedi used…" Booker pointed out aloud.

Ahsoka shrugged, her headtails twitched slightly. "Holo-net mostly." she so narrowly put. "Common knowledge."

 _Uh-huh_ Booker mused, not totally conceived with her passing-off explanation. She definitely couldn't be a Jedi herself, he presumed. Even though he's never actually met one in real life, he did know that most of their kind were killed in the attack on Courscant nearly five years ago. Those that managed to survive their Order's destruction scattered into hiding from preying eye of the Empire who still hunted them. Though Booker had an idea that Ahsoka knew more than she was crediting herself.

"But it still negates the fact that the Family had found a way around this," Ahsoka said quickly after.

"My thoughts exactly," Booker agreed. "Unless they had _inside knowledge_ on this _special technology_ the Jedi used to find adapts…" He added, injecting Ahsoka's own words into his sentence.

She didn't reply right away, fixing a cynical stare at Booker. Finally, she breathed and said, "there's that possibility. But personally, I think it's pretty unlikely."

"Either way," Booker said, turning towards the window. "We aren't gonna get anywhere until one of these guys come up for air. You sure Gale's intel was solid on this?"

"It's never been wrong before," Ahsoka said. "He'll come through, Mr. DeWitt, trust me."

"Just Dewitt," Booker said to her, his gaze still to the window. "Or Booker, whichever you prefer."

An extensive pause wedged itself between them, where Booker felt fatigue nagging at him once more. He was brought back into the conversation when Ahsoka spoke.

"If you don't mind me asking, Booker," she began to say. "But when you and I met at the plaza, you mentioned a Masked Man...?"

"I think he's the ringleader in all this," he said, folding his arms, leaning back in the chair. "But I only crossed paths with the guy once." He paused, bracing himself for what he's going to reveal next. "He killed my wife and took my daughter."

He sensed Ahsoka's shock without even turning to look her way. He held no shame in disclosing the fact that he had been victimized by the Family.

"I… I'm sorry," she uttered, unable to say anything else.

Booker sighed heavily to quench the tightening pit that had invaded his stomach. "We're gonna make them pay," he muttered, his tone darker than he intended, but the bile of anger tainted over his sorrow. Anger was a means in filling the void that resided in Booker's center, it's what drove him… gave him reason to continue searching for his wife's killers. And in due time, he'll be one _very_ close step towards achieving that goal.

For a long while, neither he nor Ahsoka said anything to one another, allowing Booker to dwell into his thoughts. Severing the mood, a soft repetitive beep tickled the air.

Booker rose his head out his hands and looked up at the holo-pad's hovering over his head. The holographic screen of both the devices shown a match on a face. Stepping up, Booker took the device to hand and stared at the image.

"We got a hit," he said, taken by surprise. Looking pass the display, Booker extended his gaze out through the window, hoping to spot the face he saw. Only, his attention is brought to Ahsoka's holo-pad, which chimed off multiple times, registering two, and then three… then five facial IDs in short secession.

Out the window, Booker angled himself to look in the direction of the entryway that lead into the club in which Gale's Intel said their targets would be. Just then, he made out the line of humans in which the holo-pads singled out. Even from his hampered vantage point, Booker was able to tell that these were the people they were after.

"That's them," Ahsoka said joining Booker by the window.

Booker watched the six or so individuals file through the doorway and into the club. Finally, it was time.


End file.
